


The Empty Girl

by Fettkat



Series: The Family Business [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fettkat/pseuds/Fettkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 9 of "The Family Business" series.<br/>Sherlock's return from the dead brought out different reactions from his friends, but how does it impact his daughter? And how does the fact that his daughter has grown up in the time he's been away affect Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the initial part of the Sherlock episode, "The Empty Hearse".

Mycroft: "It's been two years. They've gotten on with their lives."  
Sherlock: "What lives? I've been away."  
...  
Mycroft: "You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome."  
Sherlock: "No it isn't."  
[Season 3, Episode 1, The Empty Hearse]  
\----------------------------------------------------------------

Just another day at the office.  
The fact that that office happened to be the new Scotland Yard didn't really make a difference, Jackie thought as she entered her small flat and heaved a quiet sigh, tossing the keys into a small bowl kept by the door. She switched on the lights and paused, her shoulders slumping slightly as she took in the emptiness.  
What did you expect? she chided herself.  
Michael had wanted to come over, just as he did every night.  
You were the one who refused him.  
She needed some alone time, she'd told him.

She took off her coat and hung it up, then kicked off her shoes and padded towards her bedroom on stockinged feet, unbuttoning her blouse as she went. She changed her mind midway and headed for the kitchen. A quick rummaging of the top shelves soon informed her she was fresh out of both vodka and wine. She tossed the empty bottles into recycling and took down the only bottle that remained.  
Tennessee bourbon. Yuck! Michael's signature drink. Only an American could stomach the stuff.  
Her need for fortification though soon overcame her preference and she poured two fingers in a clean glass and popped in a couple of ice cubes to take the edge off. Swilling her drink absent-mindedly in her hand, she headed back to the bedroom. 

She had just gotten out of her clothes and was running a hand through her loose brown hair, fighting fatigue to go take a shower, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Somehow she never quite recognised her reflection these days. Clad now only in a slinky black shift which clung very attractively to her figure, she still found herself looking rather world-weary, something she had never noticed in herself two years ago.  
Of course, two years ago her world had been quite different.

Suddenly, her ears pricked. She'd heard something. Somebody else was in her flat! All instincts instantly on edge, she reached for her gun where she'd kept it on the dresser.  
A moment later, her bedroom door flew open and she brought up her weapon cocked unmercifully at the middle of the unexpected intruder's forehead.

Sherlock stood frozen at the entrance to his daughter's bedroom, taking in the bizarre scene in front of him. He was acutely aware of the presence of the gun in her hands, still pointed relentlessly at him. But it was the sight of the young woman behind it which had hit him like a sledgehammer as soon as he'd entered.

More than two years had elapsed since he'd seen her last, storming angrily out of his life, but he had somehow still expected to find the same fiery teenaged girl he had left behind. That expectation was now well and truly shattered.  
How old was she now? She couldn't be more than nineteen, and yet she could have passed for an experienced twenty-five with almost no effort. Her steel-grey eyes had hardened over the loss of far too much innocence and her face had adjusted to match.  
Sherlock had absolutely no doubt she was fully capable and willing to use her weapon in as effective a manner as possible.  
Perhaps in this one case he ought to have heeded Mycroft's advice. Maybe he really wasn't welcome after all. 

They had been facing off without a word exchanged between them for quite a few seconds now and she still hadn't pulled the trigger. Sherlock could see uncertainty, hesitation and a great deal of pain beginning to cloud Jackie's eyes. She shifted her stance almost imperceptibly, never letting up her point-blank range, but he felt her gaze search his figure.  
He took the opportunity and quickly scanned the contents of her room to get an indication of what her life had been like since he'd left. All he could see were signs of his own overpowering guilt.

Sherlock blinked and took a cautious step forward, taking care to keep his arms raised all the same.  
Jackie made a half-threatening gesture with her revolver and finally managed to break the silence.  
"Who are you? What do you want?"  
Her voice sounded dry, stiff. Almost as though she was holding back tears.  
Sherlock took another step forward. Still no bullet came piercing through his skull.  
"It really is me, Jackie," he said at last.  
"In short, not dead..."  
The only indication of emotion he had from his daughter was the slight wobble of the muzzle of her weapon.  
Sherlock's eyes slid to the glass still sitting untouched on the dresser.  
"Whisky isn't your drink," he stated matter-of-factly.  
"How would you know?"  
Her voice told him she didn't believe him.  
Sherlock's eyes locked with hers.  
"Because I'm your father."  
Jackie's lips thinned.  
"Prove it," she demanded, her tone as brittle as ice.  
"I was there when you had your first drink," he began slowly.  
"Christmas, 2001. Rum and Coke. Your grandfather's. You were six. You mistook it for your own glass and downed a great deal of it in a gulp. Then you fainted. You were awfully sick after that. Put you off the stuff for.. oh, I don't know, ten years?"  
His attempt at levity met with no response.  
"I let you have your first glass of wine with me. White. A California chardonnay, three years old. That was Christmas too. The last one... before you left."

Jackie's lip trembled and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she hesitantly lowered her gun, but she didn't come running to him.  
"You've got a lot of nerve, you know that?"  
She didn't even look at him, fumbling with the safety on her weapon as a cover for wiping her eyes. Sherlock didn't reply, hoping his silence would convey his apology.  
She looked up and he saw that her efforts had been in vain. Her tears would not stop coming and her face was turning an alarming shade of red as she fought against her overpowering emotions.  
But still she didn't step forward and Sherlock didn't dare approach to comfort her. He simply braced himself.  
"Yes...I have been led to believe that."  
"You met Uncle John?"  
"Yes."  
The silence between them lengthened, but neither of them moved from their places.  
"Uncle Mycroft knew, I suppose?" Jackie ventured, after a while. Sherlock nodded, wondering if this conversation, too, would go the way it had with John.  
Jackie looked at him searchingly for a moment and then nodded reflectively herself, as though he had just confirmed a long-standing suspicion.  
She turned on her heel, tossing her gun onto her bed and walked towards the dresser, first wrenching out a tissue to blow her nose and then taking up the whisky glass and downing it in a practiced shot.  
Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly collected himself.  
Sidling a little closer to her now, he noticed the rigid fashion with which she gripped the wooden edges and decided to change the subject.  
"How's your mother?" he asked, attempting casual conversation.  
"She's dead."  
That brought him up short.  
"What?"  
It came out before he could stop himself.  
Jackie turned to look at him, her eyes hard and cold.  
"A few months ago."  
Sherlock swayed a little on his feet, fighting his instinct to take his daughter into his arms, knowing at this juncture it would not be welcome.  
"H-how?" he stammered out.  
"She'd started taking pills. Lots of pills. One day she took too many. I was there, in the hospital at the end. She couldn't even recognise who I was anymore. I told her husband he could have her money and walked out. He and I never got along in the first place. I'd moved out first chance I got."  
Sherlock lifted a hand to his face only to find it shaking violently.  
"Mycroft never told me..." he breathed out.  
Jackie shrugged, folding her arms against her chest.  
"I don't suppose it was the sort of thing he would have considered... important."  
Sherlock lifted pleading eyes to hers, but met no sympathy there.  
"Jackie... please..."  
He knew now no apology would ever be enough, but he had to try.  
It seemed Jackie had regained control of herself. Her eyes were dry and she seemed relatively composed.  
"No, I understand. Why you left. What you do. I think it's repulsive, but I understand. Especially now, doing the work I do."  
Something ached painfully in Sherlock's heart. He remembered well the terse encrypted messages Mycroft had sent him, informing him of Jackie's decisions.  
"Your uncle told me you refused to go to Cambridge..."  
He wondered if he was doing the right thing, bringing this up now.  
Jackie heaved a very adult-sounding sigh and played with her glass, probably debating the need for a refill.  
"I couldn't..."  
"Why not?"  
She stepped away and this time looked him frankly in the eyes.  
"Because, Father, believe it or not, your 'death' left me more broken than you'd like to imagine. I simply didn't have the strength to go to college, not after that."  
Sherlock winced. He had wronged her in so many ways, he couldn't even begin to count.  
"Besides, I'm good at what I do. I'm not you, of course, but... Lestrade will tell you. Calls me his 'star pupil'. Have you met him?"  
Jackie turned without waiting for his affirmation and picked up her phone. Absorbed in it, she walked into the bathroom, apparently signalling the end of their conversation.

Sherlock was left bemused at this sudden change in her. Had he been forgiven? Or was this only a prelude to total rejection?  
"Jackie?" he called and waited until her head appeared around the door, eyebrows raised in question.  
"Hmmm?"  
He struggled for a bit to find the words.  
"I've missed you."  
He put as much honest emotion into it as he could, which, surprisingly enough, he found wasn't difficult to do at all.  
Something in his daughter's eyes softened ever so slightly.  
"I missed you too, Daddy," she said at last.  
He ducked to hide his smile of triumph before turning to leave.  
"Daddy?"  
He stopped and looked over his shoulder. She was still standing there, barefoot, dressed only in a silky black slip, her phone in one hand, but she was chewing on her lower lip, a small crease forming in between her brows.  
"How did you know I wasn't going to shoot you?"  
Sherlock's lips twisted upward. He looked down and tapped out something on his phone. Jackie's mobile began to ring and she looked down at it in surprise. A caller ID was flashing, one she hadn't seen in over two and a half years:  
Daddy calling.  
She looked up, her mouth still slightly open.  
Sherlock was grinning.  
"Because I'm your father, darling. I knew you wouldn't give up on me. Just like I knew you wouldn’t have deleted my number. Not just yet."


End file.
